


Short-Lived Shelter

by lordnelson100



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s07e06 Beyond the Wall, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rare Pairings, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordnelson100/pseuds/lordnelson100
Summary: Whenever he sees that cunt Tormund, he tells him what an ugly fucker he is.Gap filler at the end of “Beyond the Wall.” Yes, it’s The Hound/Tormund. No, I’m not sorry.





	Short-Lived Shelter

The Queen with the dragons (not the Queen who fucks her brother) fucks off south with the struggling Wight in its sack. Some mad plan about convincing the world to come to their aid against the Army of the Dead. The Hound stays at the Wall, because that’s where the whole fucking disastrous last battle will have to be fought, won’t it? Where they’ll either save the Living, so everyone can go on suffering through their shit lives, or more likely, all die screaming at the hands of the Dead and be torn to bleeding hunks of flesh.

Either way. He’s here. He’s not going to drag himself South to jaw about it to the cunts of King’s Landing. They’ll be back this way.

Meanwhile, there’s not a lot to do, except try to make this miserable EastShit by the Bay a little less shitty.  He joins the work crews frantically shoring up the defenses.

Whenever he sees that cunt Tormund, he tells him what an ugly fucker he is, what a giant ugly hairy cock-sucking ginger mad fucker he is, because that’s what men do. 

Only the thing is, the giant Wilding is actually not too bad looking, the Hound thinks. Or wouldn’t be, without the great shaggy nonsense beard and stinking furs he wears.  He’s got high cheekbones, big clear eyes, great white teeth that flash when he laughs. Lots of battle scars, but nothing too disfiguring. And all that curly red hair.

Surrounded as they are, by a sea of disgusting, desperate scum, frost-bitten men filthy and defeated from the cold, plus a mix of the mentally deficient, pardoned rapists, and unwanted bastards, an all-male community with the worst seeping sins of mankind written in their souls and on their faces—well, let’s just say that Tormund’s one of the least revolting people to be around.

Of course, Tormund’s always flapping his cunt mouth about his cock, and about fucking, whether it be women, or everyone else if there are no women, or a fucking bear or a seal or . . . “You’re a talker, you are,” he tells Tormund one day. “And talkers make me tired. Shut up about fucking, why don’t you, or I’ll give you something else to do with your bleeding cunt mouth.”

Tormund grins at him, and tells him to follow him back to his room for some of the filthy goat’s piss excuse for alcohol that they drink up here. When they’re alone, he pushes Sandor down on the pile of skins that passes for a bed, and gives him a good suck.

Clegane is so shocked that he just lets it happen. It doesn’t last long, it’s been a very long time for him, and afterwards, the big fellow grins at him again, and wipes his mouth, and saunters off.

The Hound lies there. It’s been so long. The last time he spent the night with a whore was King’s Landing, and in the long months of travelling and fleeing and fighting since, he’s had what, a cocksuck in an alley here or there, in return for a coin. Some she-whores, sometimes a  _ he _ , because what does it matter when it’s dark and quick.

It’s been so long. No one’s touched him who wasn’t trying to hurt him,  or unless he was paying, in . . . well. He goes out to the practice yard, and he gets in some sparring, but not a lot, because, frankly,  everyone in the damned fort is appalled by him, apart from Snow, Dondarrion and Tormund. The sparring ground tends to clear out fast when he arrives.

It happens again, and this time Sandor tells Tormund to take off the stupid shitty mass of fur that passes for his clothing, and Tormund does, the ugly barbarian cunt. He has beautiful, pale skin, like milk, nicer by far then a lot of whores Clegane’s met, and big shoulders, and red hair on his chest and by his cock, which is a big thick cock, as promised. The Wilding is not like Sandor himself. He’s not disgusting.

“I’m not doing it back to you,” he says roughly. Tormund’s just used that mouth of his again on Clegane (who doesn’t take off any of his clothes, just gets his cock out).  The Wilding laughs at him, and fists his own hard-on happily, lying back on the shitty excuse for a bed and yanking until he comes, while Sandor watches him through half-closed eyes, never looking away.

They go out on several dangerous missions, trying to scout the oncoming Army of the Dead, and every time, the Hound tells himself the he’ll probably die, and it would be a good thing, and that the Wildling will probably die, the mad fucker, but he can’t quite tell himself that that will be a good thing. He tries to keep that from happening.

_ “I don’t think you’re mean. You have sad eyes.” _

What in the name of the Mother’s cunt did that mean, shut your whore mouth—I know what it  _ means _ , but why did he say it? It goes round and round in Sandor’s head. He’s thinking about it one evening when the big ginger cunt is sharing a skin of ale with him, companionably huddled in their little hideout.

“I’ll ask him. I’ll ask him why he thought that, I will,” thinks Clegane. “Or, I’ll say,  _ you’re not so awful for a talkative cunt _ , or something. I will say,  _ you’re a sweet fellow, you mad ginger bastard _ .”

He doesn’t say any of it, but he does jerk the other man off, in a friendly way, and sit with his head leaning against his shoulder, after.

**Author's Note:**

> * I am spoiler free but I feel like the show will soon joss this and destroy my poor giant murder friends. Whom I love.  
> * Honestly I am very Tormund/Brienne and The Hound/Compassion but if they never get it then . . .


End file.
